


Happy Golden Days

by endquestionmark



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-30 23:52:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endquestionmark/pseuds/endquestionmark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt "Ricki sneaks into the Christmas party; Peter drags him outside to tell him off but ends up kissing him instead. Maybe it was Control putting all that damned vodka in the punch; maybe it's just the Christmas spirit and the mistletoe everywhere; or maybe it's just that Peter's wanted to kiss those full red lips since the moment he saw Ricki."</p><p>Originally posted at the kink meme <a href="http://ttss-kink.livejournal.com/926.html?thread=43678#t43678">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Golden Days

Peter is on his fifth cup of punch when he sees furtive movement by the door; he isn't even paying conscious attention any more, and everything is vaguely slow and blurred, but he notices nonetheless, and he takes three long steps and catches Ricki Tarr by the wrist.

"The hell are you doing here," he says, and Tarr squints at him and sniffs the air and says, "Are you trying to get drunk, or did Control take the chance to get rid of that piss-poor vodka."

Peter isn't sure, and maybe it's both; he knows that the last thing he actually wants is to be here, surrounded by drunk lamplighters and mothers and God knows who else, and he hands the cup off to Tarr and says, "Here, you should appreciate it."

Ricki sips at the punch and winces; he tilts his head back and swallows the rest of the cup's contents, and Peter watches his throat move and finds the coherency in some sober corner of his brain to say, "Why the hell are you here, anyway?"

Tarr ignores him completely, and Peter looks around; fortunately no one has noticed Tarr yet, and he decides that it needs to stay that way, mostly because at least half the people here would probably start by pouring punch down his shirt and end by breaking a few of his fingers. He tries to push Tarr by the shoulder and misses; he ends up guiding him out with a hand on his lower back, and he hopes to God that no one sees this either.

The street outside is empty and cold, and Peter slumps against the wall and watches Ricki light a cigarette.

"That's not very kind, Mr. Guillam," he says finally, smoke twisting from between his lips. The wind pulls at Peter's coat and the end of Tarr's cigarette glows red, red like the spots high on Tarr's cheeks, red like his lips.

Peter moves as though controlled by strings to lean forward and pluck the cigarette from Tarr's fingers; he presses his mouth to Tarr's and steals the dry smoke, sucking at Ricki's lower lip. At the corner of Tarr's mouth a wisp of smoke escapes before Ricki brings a broad hand up, curls it around the back of Peter's neck, and they breathe together before their air goes stale. Tarr gasps, sucking in the dry winter air like a drowning man, and Peter feels the bite of it, the burn of it in his lungs.

They break apart when Peter feels the cigarette burn his fingers, and he takes one last drag before passing it back to Tarr.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Guillam," Tarr says, grinding the stub against the wall in a slow circle.

"Happy Christmas," Peter says, and feels that for once it isn't quite a generic platitude.


End file.
